One day, on the road to health,
I came upon the truth and acted on it thusly:
inserting my fingers deep into my throat,
I moved them about until the desired effect
materialized, namely the glorious backward
waterfall of that and the previous day's kill.
Then, reaching behind me, I inserted
my arm up my gateway of expulsion,
releasing all of my stored-up waste
(historical and contemporary)
in an exhilarating, seemingly endless
cascade of fermented rainbows. And when,
with an exultant, trumpety blast it was finished,
I picked up a red-hot sword and seared
the opening so that no particle
or voice would ever again pass through
its fluted lips. As a final measure I
swallowed the sword, watching the
smoke curl around the blade,
and then withdrew it, slowly, ruining
for all time my throat for the act of consumption,
thereby ensuring the permanence of the state
of health - nay, purity! - which I had so
whole heartedly undertaken to achieve.


(originally appeared as a prose piece in The Means, vol 2, 2006)

things start and stop too soon,
or maybe never; they are eyes
between starts, gross ghosts
and vast absences,

all the missing crystal that god said
was his best medicine, courtly
love refuting nothing. things start.
they grow up to be dead children,

such subtle lesions on innocent skin
and so very little innocence within,
just meat in so many lonely colors,
where things start and go missing

dead things living, everything is medicine
for feckless children